


Cantata for Three Voices in G Major: Back Stories

by Wirefish1



Series: Cantata for Three Voices in G Major: Back Stories [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Character Study, F/M, Femdom, Gen, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Work, Speculation, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:44:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wirefish1/pseuds/Wirefish1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random collection of back stories for my larger work, Cantata for Three Voices in G Major. I'll try to keep these as non-spoilery as possible, at least until the main document is completed. Updates on this will be far more sporadic than on the main work. </p><p>Owing to the note-quality of these, be aware that proof-reading is likely to be minor or non-existent. Don't be surprised if I use "back" three times in a paragraph or refer to burning scones when I clearly mean sconces. Enjoy the surreal.</p><p>Also, I write entirely too much on devices with semi-sentient and malicious autocorrect. Damn you, autocorrect! Even Scrivener! Argh!</p><p>Opening up to non-authenticated users.</p><p>!!!! Look there! I can do a series! Ok, this is a Series of largely stand alone chapters. Vignettes. That kind of thing. Whoo!!!!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cantata for Three Voices in G Major: Back Stories

**Young Snape's first visit to a pro-domme.**

Holly took another look through the peep hole at her newest client.

Young. Mid-twenties, she guessed. Her first impression was of austere dress, but the sheer numbers of buttons on his clothes amounted to decoration. Sallow skin, jabbing beak of a nose, lank hair centrally parted. None of it flattered him.

He'd bent nearly to the clipboard as he'd filled out her standard form. He'd handed it to Ang with a cocky smirk, and swaggered back the few steps to the lone arm chair in what she referred to as her waiting room. How he could ooze such superiority in so few movements impressed her. When Ang had delivered the form to Holly, he'd stayed seated and dropped his eyes to his fingers loosely steepled in his lap.

The leather men on the docks could learn a thing or two from this one.

But he was here. He'd called the number in her advert just the week prior and set up the earliest time.

"I need something done,” was all he’d said according to Ang, then had been unwilling to clarify further. Not much different from most of her clients, really, but few of them came in acting like they owned the flat.

He’d pressed so hard on the paper his biro had gouged through on half the responses. The couple of “I’ve done this” and handful of “I’d like to try this” were scattered though out the majority negative responses. No bondage. No canes. No straps. No sissification. A man of few interests, this John Smith. She rolled her eyes. Most of her clientele used the same false name.

“Flogger, governess, dungeon.” Different, but who judged? Good thing Mistress Anne had encouraged her to expand her line of leather implements.

Holly checked her hair once more, pressed the number three light for Ang’s desk, and bustled down the hall to the torture room. She’d lit the sconces earlier and filled the pitcher with fresh water. The electric tapers and indirect lighting brightened the room enough for safety without taking away too much from the grey-painted faux stone. The room itself held just a whipping bench, a few shackles secured to the wall, the equipment wardrobe, a simple sideboard with the pitcher and plastic cups, and a chair for her. She took her place on the unpadded oak arm chair and waited.

He entered and Ang shut the door behind him. His fingers twitched at his sides, then he laced his arms over his chest and regarded her. For a moment, she wondered who was expecting to punish whom. She pointed at the floor before her and he moved to the spot, still with his arms crossed.

"John Smith?"

He nodded curtly.

"I'm Mistress Harm. You've never been seen to?"

"No."

She could have asked him if he'd ever taken a cab for all the response he gave. She'd have to figure another way to crack this nut. "What do you need done?"

Smith blinked and he gestured at the clipboard on the narrow table beside her. "It's all there."

"You want to be flogged. Have you been beaten before?"

"No." He scoffed, as if to say he'd like to see someone try.

Fine.

She rose, opened the wardrobe door, and pointed inward at the array of implements. Canes, floggers, tawses, crops, cats, a couple rulers—she'd pulled together her entire collection, right down the the things usually kept in the schoolmistress's room. His eyes widened a hair and she was certain he lost a little color.

"What interests you, Smith? You can come closer to look."

He took a hesitant step forward, then moved with purpose to her side. He didn't just look. Hetouched the implements very lightly with his long fingers, nudging them aside, one after the other. While he did that, she inspected him.

Spotty, not very, but enough that she adjusted his guessed-at age downwards. Early twenties. Maybe even just legal. The edges of his collar and cuffs were frayed, although the buttons—blimey, how many?—were all present and securely sewn. He seemed clean, but his hair.... Well, he was a client, not a prospective date. Thin, angular.

"This one," he said, pointing at a cat of black braided leather.

"Never been flogged?"

"I told you that."

"Then we'll start with this and and use this." She plucked floggers of deer hide and suede off their hooks and closed the doors. "That cat is too much for your first time."

He buried both hands in his coat pockets. "Why'd you ask me to pick?" he asked sullenly.

"To make certain you knew what you meant." She laid the whips on the sideboard. "Something to look forward to."

When she turned back to him, his face was drawn as if he were keeping a retort just inside his compressed lips. His eyes flicked toward the kneeling bench. "You want me there?"

"I will. Just a few things. I'm not a prostitute."

"I wouldn't be here if—"

"Quiet," Holly barked. He pursed his lips. "If you want me to stop, you'll say your name, John Smith, understand? That's your safeword. 'Stop' and 'no' won't work."

He nodded.

"When I ask a question, you'll answer verbally with my name."

"Yes, Mistress Harm."

"Good. Are you here for punishment or reward?"

His chin jerked. Not a question he'd been expecting. "Meaning?"

"Try again—"

"Meaning what, Mistress Harm?"

"Have you been a good boy or a bad boy?"

He stared a hole in her chin before responding in a low voice. "I'm for trial and must perform well. Mistress Harm."

One of those, then. Lots of praise. "Very well. Disrobe to your waist and take off your belt. There are clothing hooks on that wall. Kneel there when you're ready." His gaze followed her gesture to the kneeling block.

She closed the door behind her and gave Ang a pained grin. The younger woman watched through one of the concealed peepholes on any new client.

"Seems like a good sort,” she whispered.

"Doesn't know what he wants," Holly replied. She checked her watch. A couple minutes to undress, a couple minutes to anticipate. "Any idea how old?"

Ang shrugged. "Twenty? But all cash up front."

A right mystery, this one.

Holly nudged the flap over the spy hole aside. He'd stripped already, but he stood in the middle of the room, staring at the bench. He rubbed his upper arms with both hands, and pressed his clasped palms to his lips. Then he fished in a coat pocket, pulled out a foot-long black stick, and shoved it in his trouser pocket. As though that made all the difference in the world, he lurched to the bench, knelt, and gripped the crossbeam so hard his knuckles whitened.

She gave him a little while to stew before entering. His pale shoulders jerked when she shoved the door home.

"Are you ready to prove yourself?"

"Yes, Mistress Harm."

She counted scars as she paced behind him with the flogger loose in her hand. A dozen. Where from? Holly adjusted his hands and stroked her fingernails over his back, outlining the area she intended to strike. No boils or open sores. No pustules.

"Keep your head down. Prepare yourself." She rested her palm on the crown of his head, keeping the contact between them until she felt him relax.

He took a deep breath. She waited until he began to exhale and started slowly with the deer flogger, light strokes with no force at all. When he broadened his back, she put some effort into the throws until his skin had a nice glow.

Holly trailed the blades over his back and crooned at him, "How's my good boy? Holding up well?"

"Yes, Mistress Harm," he whispered back. His voice had lost some of its smoothness.

"Ready to take more?"

His head bobbed. "Please, Mistress Harm."

She picked up the suede flogger in preparation. After she'd got a nice rhythm going with the deer hide, she seamlessly switched to the suede. The expanse of his back grew red and shiny under her assault. He kicked the toes of his boots against the floor and his fingers jerked away from the upright, but he kept his head bowed. He probably could've taken the cat. When his head twitched to one side, she slowed to caress the tails over him and purred encouragement at him again.

His voice rasped when he answered her. Not broken, but raw. He hissed when she pressed the cool back of her hand against his hot shoulder blade.

"Just a little more, my darling, I know you can take it all."

He moaned softly. She forgave his lapse in manners and switched back to the deer hide, ended by draping the flogger over his shoulders, and kissed the crown of his head.

"You did very well," she whispered at him. "Such a good, brave boy." His shoulders jerked. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

"I need—need some time, mistress."

"I'm just down the hallway. I'll be back in a little while."

Holly returned the suede flogger to the sideboard, set the water pitcher and a cup near to hand on the floor, and slipped quietly out the door.

When she returned to the peephole with her own cup of water and a straw, he still hadn't moved. From experience, she knew her clients might stay entranced for several minutes. He seemed to be one of the slower ones. Eventually, though, he pushed himself around to sit on the bench, and sipped at the water. He'd been crying. Damn—she'd forgotten to set out a towel. He pulled a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, tipped some water onto it, and dabbed at his face. A black tattoo on his inner left forearm leered briefly at her, a skull with something pouring from its mouth. He seemed to need nothing more than time, so she went down the hall to pull on a robe and check with Ang on her schedule.

Holly brought a warm, wet washcloth with her when she checked on him again. He'd dressed and stood by the chair as if waiting for her. Both floggers had been returned to their hooks in the wardrobe. He accepted the flannel and wiped his face and hands.

"You left no number—" she started.

"I have none."

Pay phone. "I encourage my clients to check in with me in the days following. If you have any concerns, bad feelings, it's covered in the cost. I'm not a doctor, but I can listen."

His black eyes seemed empty. "I won't need that," he said firmly and did that odd thing with his fingers again as he folded his arms, as though he were drawing a blanket around himself.

"I'll show you out."

Holly held open the waiting room door for him. He paused by Ang's desk.

"Is it acceptable to make appointments when I need them?"

Both women nodded. Ang flipped open her schedule book. "A week ahead is preferable, just as you did."

He started to say something, then clamped his hand over his left arm, right where the tattoo was. Without another word, he left the flat.

A passing car backfired.

"Think he'll be back?" Ang asked.

"I'm sure." Holly craned her neck to look at the book. "Bertie's next. Governess and canes. At least I'm dressed."

**Author's Note:**

> I clearly think very highly of myself, if I think people want to read these ravings of a madperson.


End file.
